Sometimes I go to this world’s darkest place.
There’s no bright air and only black abounds.
With all my strength I seek Apollo’s face
But falter parched on every day’s dry grounds.
Then I wander and cling to my instincts
And step ‘round all the weird winds of fashion,
Finding there’s no critics I can convince,
My eyes cast down to mask my raw passion.
Each day I lash the words ‘til they confess
What’s in my heart and bursting to be read
And yet there’s no respite from facelessness
While time spins by and leaves my mind near dead.
How could those mighty poets of lost years
Survive the stress and torture of their tears?